


Running With the Wolves

by Fuzziestpuppy



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rival CEOs, Excessive Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral!Ajay, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Romance, questionable decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzziestpuppy/pseuds/Fuzziestpuppy
Summary: Ajay Ghale, the young heir to the Ghale family fortune had made his debut on the international corporate scene at the tender age of twenty, ready to assume both the responsibilities of his position in Daddy’s company and no doubt a sizable trust fund.  Pagan admits that he had been expecting a certain…archetype, one that involved drugs and fast cars; a sheltered manchild who had grown up yachting on jewel-blue lakes in the Hamptons.And Pagan had been lying in wait.But that wasn't what he got at all.  No, what he got was some species of wild animal, a wolverine in a fine Henry Poole.  A fierce, wary animal that slipped from every trap Pagan could set for him...and not the least bit afraid to bite.
Relationships: Ajay Ghale/Pagan Min
Comments: 50
Kudos: 35
Collections: Pajay Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Savage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BunnyMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyMoss/gifts).



> A 2020 Pajay Fic Exchange with BunnyMoss!

***

The tiger glares at Pagan with a fierce intensity.

A savage creature, all claws and teeth and with its pale fur bristling at him when he looks back over his shoulder, but he barely spares it a bored glance. Its hot eyes and snarling mouth gleam wetly while his own hair threatens to drip into his eye, but despite appearances, the tiger is a dispassionate observer of his life and makes no comment aside from that frozen, glowering show of teeth.

Pagan slaps the towel down over its face and dries his back vigorously before moving onto his hair.

Forty-eight hours, two continents and three layovers from Hong Kong, he examines and then sighs at his own face in the bathroom mirror of his hotel room in New York. Red-eyed and still jet lagged as all hell, but here he is, ready to get all dressed and polished up for some soirée or ball or…something. Doesn’t even remember the occasion, some snobby event being thrown by the Kingdom of Bahrain, but that’s not important. If there’s a gift expected, his secretary will have already made the purchase and sent it ahead of him, tasteful and ready for him to smile and nod about when he’s thanked for it.

No, all he knows are two things: one being that it’s white tie, which he _loathes._ Fucking hates snotty tailcoats and particularly dislikes the feeling of being slowly and delicately strangled by formalwear.

The second is the fact that Ajay Ghale will also be attending, the real reason he accepted the invitation in the first place. When the young heir to the Ghale family fortune had come fluttering onto his radar years ago, he had been expecting a certain…archetype. One that had involved drugs and fast cars and flinging fistfuls of Mumsy and Daddy’s cash about. If not that, then at least a posh fellow who had grown up yachting on jewel-blue lakes in the Hamptons or Switzerland for his summer holidays.

A decidedly sharp contrast from his own upbringing.

True, he’d had the well-to-do boarding school experience as well, but he was nearly certain that Ghale’s holidays didn’t involve muling drugs and running enforcement for the Triads. Pagan had the picture of Ghale already in mind, of how he might play that undoubtedly soft and sheltered manchild to his own ends…but that wasn’t what he got. In hindsight, he was an utter fool, to take appearances at face value; _him,_ of all people.

No, what he got was some species of wild animal, a wolverine in a fine Henry Poole. Impassive. Implacable. A fierce, wary animal that slipped from every Min-shaped trap Pagan could set for him.

While he considers these things, he climbs into his shirt and trousers and waistcoat with their array of arcane fastenings and silk suspenders and multitude of tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons. All harshly black and snowy white and perfectly regulation and _boring._ He’s a man who enjoys a bit of flash about his appearance, a bit of color, thank you very much. They’re lucky he doesn’t show up wearing nothing but a little black cocktail number and a nasty smile. Not like he hasn’t done it before, just for the pure malicious fun of it. Ugly, knobby knees on full display. He wouldn’t bother to shave his legs either.

Pagan briefly considers doing little wings with his eyeliner or wearing lipstick or something along those lines, but sighs and resigns himself to best behavior with a little smoky eyeshadow and mascara. Understated. Restrained. 

The car will be here for him any minute as he shrugs on the coat, and as he smooths his hands over the front of it, the inside pocket crinkles under his palm. Dry-cleaning receipt, he thinks, probing with his fingers for it. Finally he locates it and unfolds what turns out to be a little note.

_Check the mini fridge, Boss. Have a good time!_

_Gary_

With a little brow-knitted frown, Pagan does as he’s bid…and laughs when he discovers a boutonnière in its clear plastic box. A carnation, in delicate, palest pink. He heads back to the bathroom mirror to pin it on.

Good old Gary. He knows him so well.

Even as subtle a shade as it is, amongst all that black and white and silver it’ll stick out like a blaze of rebellious color. Right along with the gold and diamond stud in his ear which he utterly refuses to switch out for something that matches his silver-edged buttons. These old money types already think of him as a trashy upstart, an imposter in their staid circles, he knows they do. And to be perfectly honest…they’re a bit right. May as well look the part, as he gives his shoes a last little shine on the inside edge of one of his tails and slips them on.

With one last adjustment of his bowtie and a rake of his fingers through his hair, Pagan sits down at the desk to wait for the driver’s call. He reaches out a finger and spins the Ghale dossier over to glance through it one final time. Paul’s handiwork, as much intel as could be gathered on the boy, consists of a handful of glossy photos and a few snippets of news articles. A list of his associates. Not really much to go on. He inspires fierce loyalty in his people, even as young as he is. Even De Pleur’s myriad connections couldn’t find a leak, no matter who they leaned on or what bribe or blackmail was offered. Not a single one of those associates spilled a damn thing, much to Paul’s chagrin.

The fact that they didn’t is perhaps just as important as whatever insider knowledge about Ghale they might have had, as he taps his finger idly on one of the photos.

The one on top happens to be the most recent. Nearly thirty now and grown into his looks, out of gangling youth into a broad-shouldered, trim-waisted solidity. _Handsome_ lad, tall and dark and fierce looking with those eyebrows, those hawkish dark eyes. Not that it matters how pretty he is. He does wonder, though, if Ghale has been doing as much sniffing about as he has. If he’s as curious about him as vice-versa. What he might think, how he sees him.

The first time Ghale managed to evade him was when he made his debut on the international corporate scene at the tender age of twenty, ready to assume both the responsibilities of his position in Daddy’s company and no doubt a sizable trust fund.

And Pagan had been lying in wait for him.

Ready to dangle the hint of a major swing in commodities right in front of him. He, of course, had insider information that indicated the very opposite from his network of contacts. Not entirely licit, but Hong Kong’s legal and political machine tended to be a bit more lenient about that sort of thing than its American counterpart.

In any case, he’d invested heavily to make it look legitimate and waited, his finger on the key to dump it all back onto the market at the last minute. And damn if that little shark hadn’t figured it out somehow. That info should have been airtight, as he and Noore Najjar watched in something approaching horror as Ghale undercut them, _gutted_ them at the last possible second. Watched as the numbers hemorrhaged like an arterial bleed.

“My god,” he’d whispered. “He’s a fucking savage.”

Noore’s specialty was playing that very same commodities market, as she had a fine sense for the ups and downs of it. She had turned to him with a scowl.

“Completely outmatched. _Don’t_ do this again, Pagan…I know you like a challenge, but he’s gotten your number somehow. I have no idea how, but he's gotten you.”

He’d hummed at her noncommittally. Because although he’d just lost them maybe a cool million in ten seconds…

…it was also perhaps the most exciting thing he’d experienced in a decade.

Two weeks later, Ghale had nearly managed a forced acquisition of one of their subsidiaries in what Pagan was fairly sure was an act of retribution. A bit overkill, in his thinking, as if the boy had forgotten the fact that he’d come out squarely on top in their last little spat. A scorched earth policy perhaps? He’d headed that acquisition attempt off at the pass, but only barely, and hatched a plan of his own.

It all began to have the feel of a chess match, or a fencing bout, measured sweep of blade against blade…but they were the only ones keeping score, really. Well, Noore was keeping a sharp eye on him, ready to chide him for misbehaving, but as long as the shareholders and the Board stayed happy, he was mostly free to do as he pleased.

Seven years now, they’ve been at this little conflict of theirs, this war of attrition…and now, finally, he’s going to meet the man himself. Have a chance to size him up, face to face.

Perhaps finally get his measure.

***


	2. A Few Canapés Would Have Been Wise

***

The limo picks Pagan up in front of his hotel and obligingly drops him off at the front steps of what can only be described as a mansion, like something out of a television show. A stereotype of white marble columns nestled in a setting of velvety green gardens and topiaries and fountains. He sighs and slides across the leather seat and out when the driver opens the door for him, already mentally bracing himself to be out of his element.

As he makes his way up the polished marble steps and into the foyer, he discovers that this is one of the sorts of events where one lines up on the carpet and waits to be announced to the room at large. It also strikes him that he perhaps ought to have brought a date, as he hands his invitation to the white-gloved butler…but fuck it. Far too late to worry about it now. And besides, as a confirmed bachelor, he might just have elicited more stares and gossip if he’d shown up _with_ one.

When they get around to calling his name, they announce him as ‘Mr. Pagan Min,’ as simply as that. Him, who was once the Mountain Master, the White Tiger, head of the White Tiger Triad. With the ink and the myriad scars to prove it, and for just a moment he bristles. That position once afforded him power, and a great deal of prestige…but never respect, oh no, not from such as these.

After his father’s unfortunate demise (and he would never tell exactly what happened on that long-ago night), Min Gang the Younger became Pagan Min, styled after that long-ago Burmese king of familicide and blood (no, really; he’d never tell). He had inherited his father’s dubious throne, his faltering heroin enterprise, and more enemies than he could shake a stick at. All of Gang’s former rivals wanted a piece of him, itching to add lucrative Tiger territory to theirs. All of Gang’s former allies, likewise…and for the exact the same reasons.

The bounty on his rebelliously blond head had been enormous.

How he even survived those years he’ll never know. Sheer dumb luck, more than anything. But he was not left unscathed; bloody, yes, but never beaten. For every drop he bled, he managed to force his enemies to shed ten more, and by the time he was twenty-one he was more or less on top of the heap.

And then, that same year, he did something so unprecedented, so crazed, so balls-to-the-wall insane that the old guys still discussed it in Triad circles. The ambitiously brazen fool that he had been had gathered his assets, his resources, the entirety of the White Tiger into his young hands…

…and went legit.

As it turned out, being an actual businessman was at least five times as hard as being a drug lord had been. After all, he couldn’t very well have his high-ranking contemporaries strangled and dumped into the far side of Victoria Bay on some dark night, now could he? No, he’d had to learn a new paradigm, and learn it very, very quickly…but being on the correct side of the law also had its major advantages, and before long White Tiger International, LLC was making far more cold, hard cash than Gang could have ever dreamed of. The competition was stiff, cutthroat; but he was harder, forged in a different fire.

And that’s how he finds himself here now, marginally welcomed at events such as these, rubbing dubious elbows with the true lords of the world. Hell, the hosts of this little gathering, the Khalifas, ruled the desert while his own ancestors were peasants busily grubbing in the dirt. Peasant farmers with ambitions, though. Who could have guessed that getting British sailors fucked up on opium would turn out to be such a lucrative endeavor?

Those are the kind of musings that this sort of event puts into his head, questions of blood and breeding, as if any of that shit matters. A drop of piss in the ocean. The Triads are done for. No honor, or loyalty…little better than street gangs nowadays, and to feel even a little bitter about that is bad for his soul. Refuses to be the dinosaur his father and his cronies were, all of them now dead. The world has moved on, and he moves with it.

On the tail end of that meandering thought, Pagan sketches a bow as he’s announced and walks into a huge space of polished marble and glittering crystal and French doors, into the low roar of a few hundred folks making small talk over the canapés. He seems to have been one of the last to arrive, if the crowded nature of the room is any indication. He helps himself to a fortifying glass of champagne when one of the wait staff glides past with a tray of them, takes a deep breath, and plunges into the fray.

Twenty minutes of shaking hands and nodding politely and enduring small talk with a smile plastered on, he seems no closer to his quarry. The entire place is a shifting sea of stark black and white, punctuated by the colorful splash of some woman’s ballgown, but the men are disguised like a herd of zebras. At one point, he thought he might have spotted that combination of shaggy black hair and piercing dark eyes, but before he could even begin to move that way he’d been snagged into yet another conversation. This time with the Khalifas themselves, and no way to duck out of that one. By the time he’d thanked the hosts for throwing such a fine birthday party (the towering cake on the buffet table had given it away) and congratulated the daughter for her achievement of making it to sixteen without fatal mishap, the fellow that may or may not have been Ghale was long gone.

After his third glass of champagne, the room begins to grow stiflingly warm as well as stiflingly crowded. Part of the reason for the jam is that the parquet dance floor takes up a great deal of space at the back of the room and no one’s currently using it, the musicians still in the process of setting up. He snags another glass and finally finds an uncrowded corner to stand in and breathe for a moment, a little space between a gilt mantel and one of the open doors leading into the garden.

That damned boy. Elusive, vexing. He’s beginning to wonder if he’s even here at all, as he slips a finger under the hated collar and tugs irritably, craning his neck to try to see better over the milling mass of bodies.

The rush of warm breath from somewhere behind him, right against his ear, catches him entirely unprepared and nearly startles him out of his skin.

“Looking for someone?”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he spits, far too loudly, attracting the attention of those nearby. He nearly sent the half-empty flute in his hand sailing. “Bloody hell, I…”

Pagan throws an irritated glance back over his shoulder, already feeling bad-tempered and out of sorts and ready to snarl at whoever it is.

Only to meet his quarry’s eyes, and the harsh words die in his throat.

Paul’s dossier was laughably, woefully inadequate preparation for this meeting. Or perhaps there was no real way to prepare for something like this. Someone like this. Ajay Ghale locks eyes with him, his hawklike gaze full of dark fire and glinting in the sharp-edged light thrown from all the crystal chandeliers. Focused on him like a laser, like something predatory, something wild and watchful but full of an intense curiosity. The sheer force of those eyes makes the hair on the back of his head try to prickle up in a chill wave, despite the warmth of the room. God.

 _The hunter becomes the hunted,_ he thinks, and swallows.

“Finally, I get to meet you,” is all Ghale says, so low that it’s a bit difficult to hear over the musicians busily tuning up. Eye to eye and toe to toe with him when Pagan turns to face him fully, and too close to be strictly comfortable, but despite his fierce look the body language isn’t aggressive at all. On the contrary, he smiles at him, small but warm, as if Pagan being the prey in his little game and getting to pounce on him made him happy.

As if he really has been genuinely looking forward to meeting him.

Pagan responds to that by switching his glass to the other hand and holds his out to shake, but not before forcing him back a half-step with an unsubtle prod at his midsection.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” he grunts, before throwing back the rest of his champagne in one big swallow, and for some reason his surliness only makes the boy smile a bit wider.

“Maybe I am,” and Ghale ignores his still outstretched hand altogether in favor of leaning in close again, right into his personal space. Pagan nearly gives ground in bewilderment when the boy’s shaggy head moves in and down to his chest to sniff at his boutonnière, like some sort of wild animal. Like a fucking _crazy person._

“It’s a carnation, they don’t…it doesn’t have a smell, I’m afraid,” he finds himself saying on autopilot, otherwise speechless.

“That’s a shame, mine does.” Ghale straightens up and touches his own, a gardenia in the regulation snowy white but for its pale yellow throat. “Here,” and unpins Pagan’s flower with deft fingers and trades it out for his own. “I like yours, it’s a good color,” he says, in his quiet way.

What in the actual fuck.

On the back foot and soundly outmatched…somehow, while he just stands there blinking stupidly, the sweet smell of gardenia rising around him. It takes an embarrassingly long time for his ordinarily quick mind to come back online. Entire seconds, in fact, and only then does he register that Ghale’s finally taken his offered hand in a firm grip. Setting his empty flute down on the ornate mantel gives him an excuse to break that searing eye contact, to compose himself a little.

Which only lasts mere moments.

A mad, mischievous impulse suddenly pops into his head, half joke and half challenge. Two can play at this game of absurdity, now can’t they? 

Probably also stupid, but fuck it.

“Would you care to honor me with a dance?” And it’s Pagan’s turn to smile, sharp and hard and mocking.

Ghale cocks his head and regards him steadily, a sober, thoughtful kind of look, like he’s actually _considering_ it. That gaze burns like he can see inside him, and he can feel his own smile falter just a bit.

“Yeah, sure,” he finally says, relaxed and easy as you please, and before Pagan quite realizes it he’s being tugged by the hand in the direction of the dance floor. The hand that Ghale never really let go of.

Of course, the boy turns out to be an excellent dancer. Of course he is.

Not that he’s shit at it, quite the contrary. But the lithe grace, the quiet confidence that Ghale exudes is compelling, and he grudgingly allows him to slide an arm around his waist and take the lead. His punishment for having his bluff called: the stakes raised on him. Ghale’s probably been attending these sorts of things his entire life, probably learned to waltz while he was still toddling. Pagan scowls.

“Relax,” Ghale says, just over the music. “Loosen up. You’re the one who asked me, remember?”

“And how could I ever forget it?" he mutters. "I think I need another drink. Or five.”

That seems to surprise an honest, awkward laugh out of his companion, more charming than it ought to be. A sweet laugh that he wouldn’t mind hearing again…and he promptly shoves that thought away.

To distract himself, Pagan surreptitiously glances around at the other dancers twirling around them. He quickly notes that him and Ghale seem to be the only same sex pairing on the floor and can’t quite help the impish little smile that spreads across his face. Disrupting the status quo in mild yet annoying ways is something that has always warmed his soul, and quickly decides against bowing out after the next song as he intended. In the mood to rub it in their faces a bit, if Ghale’s still willing. Not as if either of them has anything better to do.

“What’s so funny?” Ghale asks him quietly, a little amused as well.

“Oh, merely wondering how many of these crusty old dinosaurs I’ve already managed to offend with my scandalous ways,” Pagan says cheerfully. “How many of them are sneering and simpering and tutting behind their hands as we speak…oh, how _improper_ , how very _uncouth.”_ He lets out a gentle sigh. “The thought brings me nothing but pleasure.”

He laughs again with that soft, sweet way he has, and Pagan finds himself responding with a cheeky grin.

“Does that mean you’re up for a few more rounds?”

“But of course, Mr. Ghale, of course!”

Pagan does find himself moving more smoothly after that, able to relax into the boy’s skilled hold on him a bit more. Doesn’t object to it when he’s gently tugged a little closer, and even arranges his own arm more snugly around his partner’s strong shoulders. It’s…surprisingly nice. Been ages since he’s done something like this. Sidetracked from his earlier prickliness, he mostly forgets that Ghale was the cause of it in the first place.

“That’s much better,” Ghale says, with warm approval. Warm like the alcohol in him. “What changed?”

Pagan decides to ignore that question, pretending as if he didn’t hear it at all.

“Tell me, my boy,” he says brightly, “will your date grow jealous of me, do you think? For stealing you away for so many dances?” The very thought of it amuses him. Pagan looks around them expectantly, peering into the crowd for some attractive young woman who might look as if she belongs with him. In doing so, he completely misses the oddly speculative look that Ghale throws him.

Much like his companion, Pagan also has no idea just how attractive he is at the moment. He might tug irritably at his collar but the whole ensemble is perfectly fitted, highlighting his broad chest and back and shoulders. An enigma that’s currently flushed across his high cheekbones from champagne and the warmth in the room, his clear brown eyes sparkling with cheerful mischief. Also remains unaware of the way his rival-turned-lovely-dance-partner can’t seem to pull his eyes away, drawn like a moth to his exotic flame.

“Nah, don’t worry about that,” Ghale reassures him. “Decided to go stag, like you did,” and chuckles a little. “So you have me all to yourself tonight.”

“Hmm, I see,” he says, in a noncommittal kind of way, not entirely sure how he ought to take that. Surely the boy’s not _flirting_ with him, really doesn’t strike Pagan as the sort to waste his time with it. Not shy in the slightest; oh no, not this one, not a bit…but definitely more of the strong, silent type.

Ghale cocks his head as he waltzes them around effortlessly. “You still good? Want to keep going?”

“Do you?”

“Sure, I’m having fun. You’re a good dancer.”

Pagan snorts at that. “Don’t even try to flatter me, I’m far too old to be taken in by it. I’m mediocre at the waltz at best.”

“No, I meant it. You have a good way of moving.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“You’re really solid and decisive, which makes sense for a guy used to leading. But you also take my cues easily. Most men get confused where their feet are supposed to go as the follower. Or they just straight-up try to hijack it.”

Pagan grins, despite himself.

“Is that something you happen to do a lot of?” he mock-teases. “Dancing with other men?”

“From time to time,” like he’s just stating a fact. Refuses to take that bait, or determined to let Pagan draw his own conclusions, or possibly not even realizing. A shame, he was curious as to his inclinations…strictly for intelligence purposes, of course. A juicy tidbit to add to the growing collection of them that he's storing up in his head, pieces of information he’s going to dutifully add to Paul’s dossier as soon as he’s back at the hotel.

Their steps have grown decidedly shorter, so as to not run into other couples, and Ghale goes up on tiptoes for a moment to glance over Pagan's head. Doesn’t even break stride to do it.

“Listen, let’s get out of the middle here, find a quieter corner. I want to see how it is the other way.”

Also stated in a straightforward manner, but how is it that everything out of Ghale’s mouth still manages to sound like an innuendo? That champagne on an empty stomach really wasn’t the wisest of choices, the heat of which he can definitely feel in his cheeks.

Pagan follows along with his lead as Ghale waltzes them slowly over to the far side of the dance floor, the side closest to the open doors. Good, he could use a bit of cooling down. Their progress is impeded by the mobs of partygoers now crowding the floor, as if the entire gathering received a memo all at once to congregate over here instead, but they finally manage to break through into a relatively empty area.

In one flowing motion, Ghale tries to switch off with him in mid-step, but that’s too much for his skill level. Surprisingly, his temper doesn’t flare at it like he expected it to.

“Sorry, wasn’t thinking,” Ghale says, with seemingly genuine contrition.

“Quite all right, quite all right. Just..stand still for a moment and let me get all set.”

The musicians seem to have shifted gears a little, into their slower repertoire, and that makes things much easier on him. Ghale slides his arm around his shoulders and he loops his around the boy’s trim waist, and if anything they fit together better this way. Perhaps they’ve simply grown more accustomed to each other. The slower music and closer proximity makes this dance feel exponentially more intimate, but it doesn’t disturb him like it would have just a few hours ago.

“You’re good at this, too,” Ghale whispers, pulling him in even closer, until their faces nearly touch. And for one anxious, sweating moment, he thinks that he means to fucking _kiss_ him. But before he can even open his mouth to inquire as to just what the hell it is the boy thinks he’s doing, he turns and lays his head right on Pagan’s shoulder.

He still flinches, even so. Immediately stiffens up, which makes his partner flinch in turn and pull away altogether.

Now with a few feet of distance between them, reality reasserts itself somewhat as they stare at each other. Perhaps he should take that as his cue to be done with dancing for the night. Possibly with partygoing altogether, since things between him and the good Mr. Ghale seem to be taking a turn for the decidedly _strange_.

Ghale rubs at the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to, uh…I thought it would be okay. Really wasn’t my intention to…” he seems to be searching for the word he wants and isn’t finding it. “Freak you out?”

“Oh, hardly freaked out, as you so graciously put it,” Pagan says coolly. ‘Startled,’ is perfectly appropriate.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he murmurs.

So tempted to turn on his heel and simply walk away, rudeness be damned. Go back to his hotel and get the authentic New York pizza experience delivered to his door, where he could sit in his underwear with his feet up on the table and watch shitty reruns and consume slice after delightfully greasy slice until heartburn gets the better of him. It sounds like a wonderful plan. It’s definitely what he ought to do.

But alas, he forgot to pack the Rolaids. And this far too attractive young man is standing here looking…a bit forlorn, for some reason.

Pagan narrows his eyes, examining him. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yeah, I just…kind of went and ruined it.” Ghale slides his hands into his pockets and looks away.

 _Ruined what, exactly,_ Pagan wants to ask, but sighs instead. If he quits now, might that not be construed as backing up, backing down, conceding defeat in a way? Something he’s not quite ready to do. He also considers the fact that he must be cursed, plagued to do stupid things until the day he dies.

“Pffft. Hardly,” he says to his greatest, fiercest rival…and holds out his arms for him.

The wild animal turns his head and fixes him with that fierce, burning stare once again, and Pagan lets out another sigh. After a few moments, he makes another little _come here_ gesture…and the boy finally takes his hand. Pagan pulls him in by it until they’re as close as before and holds him until he relaxes, tugs insistently until that shaggy head rests itself gently against his shoulder again.

One’s enemies in the business sphere shouldn’t be allowed to be this awkwardly charming. It isn’t fair.

He can’t say that he’s not enjoying the contact, even if he’s faintly disgusted at himself at the same time. Not even waltzing anymore, as Pagan revolves them slowly in place and does his best not to think about it. It’s late, he’s admittedly a little drunk, he can worry about it tomorrow. It’s a party, one dances at parties, after all. So here they are, doing the…well, mostly expected thing, nonconformity aside.

It doesn’t mean a thing.

The fuzzy warmth in his middle is completely attributable to the champagne; despite Ghale’s head resting on him, they’re still being entirely proper. Even if he suddenly feels the strangest compulsion to turn his head and bury his nose in his hair. That doesn’t mean anything either, surely. He nearly does it anyway, particularly when he tightens the arm around his shoulders, as if encouraging him to do so…until Pagan realizes he’s merely checking his watch.

“Shit,” he exclaims, quiet but forceful, “I gotta go in a few.”

“What? Go where?” Pagan blinks, feeling slow and stupid and still much too warm as Ghale pulls away from him again.

“My flight’s in three hours.”

“Christ, you’re flying back to LA _tonight?_ Are you mad?”

“Probably, but there’s some stuff I have to be in the office for tomorrow. I’ll sleep on the plane.”

Pagan shakes his head with a rueful chuckle. “Well, better you than me.”

Ghale takes another quick glance around them. “I could use some air…meet me outside? Give me like, three minutes.” And with that, he suddenly melts away into the crowd, leaving Pagan standing there alone on the parquet floor and feeling a bit like a man who has just stepped out of a tornado.

***


	3. Moonlight

***

The nearly full moon shines down prettily on the gardens outside, silvering all the greenery and sparkling in the fountains as Pagan steps out through the doors that have been thrown open wide. Behind him, the formal hall blazes, and he sighs in gratitude for the far gentler moonlight and the cold, fresh air that touches his flushed face like a caress. The boy certainly had the right idea; far too hot and bright and crowded in there for his tastes.

You’d think he’d have gotten accustomed to all that at some point, having lived in steamy, neon-lit Hong Kong for the majority of his life, a city crammed so full of people living cheek-to-jowl on top of each other that it bordered on the absurd. The nights are already sweltering; even this early in the year he’s usually had the bloody AC on for weeks now.

But here on the outskirts of New York it’s a different story, and spring in the northeastern part of America is just now hitting its lovely stride. Beautifully cool and damp still, and it reminds him of his time at school, the English countryside of his boyhood. Much like this place, it had been far enough from the city to be green and quiet, the sky velvety black and full of stars. On the outskirts of London, instead of New York, but the smell and feel of the air is almost the same as in his memory.

One of the better parts of his decidedly fucked-up childhood, he muses, and tips his head back to admire said stars while he waits.

By the time Ghale makes his reappearance, he’s moved on to feigning an interest in the elaborate topiaries that clutter up what would be an otherwise charming formal garden. Terribly tacky, in his apparently uncultured opinion. And they say he’s the one with no sense of taste.

The boy finally emerges from the same French doors as Pagan did, striding out onto the patio with two cups balanced easily in one of his large hands. Their contents steam gently in the chill as Ghale spots him near the fountain and comes to join him straight away. The boy ignores the neat gravel paths in favor of cutting across the velvety green lawn, his long strides leaving dark trails through the dew.

“Figured I could use some coffee before my flight,” Ghale says by way of greeting. “Got one for you too, if you want it. I forgot to ask.” He folds a careless leg under himself and plops down on the wide marble sill of the fountain, and sets the cups in front of him. A few packets of sugar appear from his tailcoat pocket, along with a tiny silver pitcher of cream, obviously purloined from the buffet table.

Well. He could certainly stand to sober up a bit. So he accepts the invitation and sits down across from him, but with a little more grace about it. Manages to lower himself down with barely a wobble and primly cross his legs at the knee.

“Thank you, that was…considerate of you.” It’s too late in the evening for it; tea would have gone down easier and not threatened to keep him awake later, but he’s not going to complain. It really is a nice gesture, and contrary to popular opinion, he’s not completely immune to them.  
The boy seems to take his black, since he leaves his cup undoctored before picking it up and sipping from it. He generally does as well, but the bit of sugar and cream he decides to add to his at least gives the illusion of it being more food-like. Honestly, padding that champagne with a few canapés really would’ve been the wise thing to do.

They sit there together in a somehow not-uncomfortable silence with only the burbling fountain for company. Off in the distance, a few couples walk about arm in arm under the small, sparkling lights that have been strung up on poles here and there, presumably for the ambiance. He can hear a bit of their chatter over the splashing, the occasional subdued laughter, but they otherwise have this corner of the gardens to themselves. He sighs and sips his coffee, glad for the warmth now that he’s cooled down a bit. Not quite cold enough to see his own breath, but maybe just on the edge of it. A bit of a novelty.

In his peripheral, Ghale slides a hand into his inner breast pocket again, this time to produce a small silver case.

“Smoke?”

Pagan laughs. “Such a bad habit, my boy! You’re determined to tempt me into resuming all sorts of vices, aren’t you? Haven’t had a drink in months, haven’t had a cigarette in years…”

“However many you’ve had tonight, I didn’t have a thing to do with it, so don’t even try to blame that shit on me,” he says, but in an easy, amiable tone. Teasing him a little. “And to be fair, it won’t be all that much of a smoke anyway. Gotta split one.”

“You are rather considerate, aren’t you?”

“Oh man, you don’t even know,” and laughs that soft, sweet laugh. “I’m trying to quit the fucking things too. But I’m doing all right with it. I figured out how to dole them out to myself at the beginning of the week and whatever’s in here is all I get. And then I kept cutting it back. This is my last one ‘til Monday.” He glances down at the case in his hand, and then back up to Pagan. “Still willing to share though.”

Such a handsome lad, he finds himself thinking, as the cool light touches his shoulders and gleams off the case in his hand, both illuminating him and painting him with velvety shadow as stark as their dress. His sharp dark eyes watch him more quietly now, softer in this light that turns the ends of his tousled black hair to silver.

“Well,” Pagan says, and chuckles a little. It comes out faintly rough around the edges, and he has to swallow before continuing. “If that’s the case, then who could say no to such a kind offer?”

This earns him a small smile from Ghale, small and sweet. And again, it’s one that he would almost interpret as a bit shy, if he didn’t know better. If he didn’t have firsthand experience with the prodigy himself: his cutthroat, feral instincts, his fucking effortless brilliance. A young man that’s awkwardly charming and fiercely unnerving almost at once. The wild wolf that lives under such fine formal wear nearly obscured by the veneer of respectability about him.

Nearly. It’s disarming, that sweetness. Possibly to calculated effect. No, probably to calculated effect, and he has to remind himself yet again to focus on his goal for this evening, which is to Know Thy Enemy Even Better, to observe and learn everything about the boy that could possibly prove useful in the future and carefully commit all that to memory.

And also chides himself for what feels like the fifteenth time this evening to keep his fucking guard up, for god’s sake. He takes another, longer drink from his cup in the name of sobriety while Ghale extract his single cigarette and a lighter from the case. Pagan merely sits and observes him go through the whole ritual, the way he cups his big hands around it in order to protect the flame and how he takes his first drag off the freshly-lit tobacco with obvious relish: drawing the smoke into his waiting lungs in a long, deep inhale and holding it there for a moment with his eyes shut Pagan sympathizes with him, remembering exactly how that feels. The plume of smoke the boy exhales also shines like silver when the moon touches it, turns to silvery clouds around his head.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Ghale murmurs, and opens his eyes before politely holding the cigarette out to him.

“I must be dead-set on never getting to sleep tonight,” he grumbles, knowing exactly how the nicotine will affect him. But apparently not done with making bad choices this evening, he reaches to take it anyway.

When it becomes clear that his initial, carefully taken mouthful of the boy’s quality tobacco isn’t going to cause him to cough embarrassingly, like some sort of sad neophyte, he allows it to travel on down into his lungs.

And that was about as far as he meant for it to go: to take only a small, polite drag off the thing, mostly to acknowledge the courtesy of the gesture. Oh, but it’s such good stuff, so very nice and smooth that he finds himself wanting a bit more than that one little taste. When he holds it between his fingers and pulls at the burning tobacco, the smoke slides down into him like a ribbon of warmth and that sensation is such an old, familiar pleasure that he finds himself inhaling much more deeply than he intended. Perhaps it’s old habits kicking in at the back of his mind, but he can’t seem to help the deep and entirely greedy drag that he ends up taking and almost immediately feels the buzz from it. While Ghale’s tobacco might go down all smooth and fine, it’s also fucking strong, as the nicotine goes straight to his head and makes it swim a bit. Delightfully so.

“Oh, this was such a bad idea,” Pagan says brightly, as he flicks the ash off into the fountain with his thumb before handing it back. “Thoroughly enjoyable, and you’re quite kind to share…but a bad idea nonetheless. Good thing there’s only the one.”

Ghale just smiles an enigmatic little smile as he wreathes his head in silvery clouds again. As if it’s all somewhat of a joke, but only between the two of them, a joke they both happen to be in on.

They pass the solitary cigarette back and forth, and to Pagan it seems if there’s a sense of camaraderie about the whole business, this simple act of Ghale bringing these small offerings and sharing them at the end of their night. There’s a certain amiable quality there, he muses, taking a sip of his cooling coffee as he tries to pin down the warm feeling. Just what it is and why it exists, why it should be that way at all, turning it over idly in his mind. And then sighs, and has to increase his count by one more. Now sixteen times of sternly reprimanding himself to push such musings out of his mind, to keep his fucking guard up, as he leans forward to take the offered smoke again. Certainly refusing to think about how the boy’s lips were just around it, the cigarette held there mere seconds ago…and now his are. As he brings it to his own mouth, his lips rest against the very same spot. They gently touch, one and then the other.

“You really will have to go soon, won’t you?” Pagan says, as he exhales slowly, savoring what’s left. They’ve nearly smoked their cigarette down to the filter now, and something tells him that finishing it will be their cue it’s time to part ways; a feeling cemented when Ghale checks his watch before taking the stub carefully from him.

“Yeah, afraid so.”

The boy takes a drag and then tries to hand it back, but Pagan waves it off.

“Thank you, but no…go ahead and finish it. I believe I’ve had enough for tonight.”

“You sure? I’ll get more on Monday.”

“Oh, you _are_ a bad influence, aren’t you? A bad habit all around,” he teases, and is rewarded with Ghale’s laughter, that low, sweetly awkward laugh of his again. Warm as the smoke in his lungs, heating him nicely from the inside and keeping the chill at bay.

And then that’s it.

Pagan grinds the butt out on one of the flagstones while Ghale gets up and brushes his trousers off. Automatically straightens his jacket and collar, but he’s just as immaculate now as when he crept up and startled Pagan from behind. An event that transpired less than three hours ago, but feels as if it’s been so long that it may as well have been yesterday. Or a week, perhaps. Ages.

Well, still immaculate but for one small thing, and reaches out to brush a minuscule crumb of brown leaf from the boy’s lapel. Takes the casual liberty of touching him like they’re on far more familiar terms than they actually are, which is a bit out of character. The fact that he does it without even thinking even more so. Pagan blinks, and slowly lowers his hands before sliding them into the relative safety of his trouser pockets. And takes one deliberate, measured step back.

But if Ghale finds this behavior odd in the slightest, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he puts out a hand, forcing Pagan to retrieve his almost as soon as he’d tucked it in. That, or leave it in his pocket and rudely refuse, but a lifetime of conditioning makes taking an offered hand almost automatic.

“Hey, I had a good time tonight. Glad you finally showed up.” Warm, firm press of his palm as his long fingers wrap around his. And speaking of liberties, Ghale reaches out with his free hand to give his upper arm a companionable squeeze. Gently, a match for the gentle grip on his hand.

“Hmm, yes…I should say the same for myself. On both counts,” he murmurs, doing his best to not be awkward about it. Certainly a great deal less intimate than dancing so closely with the boy’s head resting on his shoulder. But perhaps being alone out here instead of in the midst of a crowd of other pairs doing the same thing is what makes Ghale’s handshake feel like more than it ought.

“You really are a good dancer,” Ghale says, as if reading his thoughts. “Maybe we’ll get to do it again sometime.”

“Perhaps we will.”

Ghale finally lets go of his arm, drops his hand. And then grins at him, a sharp-edged flash of his white teeth in the dark.

“See you around, Mr. Min. ‘Night.”

“Have a good night, Mr. Ghale. And a safe trip home.”

Much as when he arrived, his long strides carry him back across the velvety green lawn, dark streaks in the dew the only sign of his passing. Pagan watches him all the way to the patio doors that are still thrown open to let in the air, but Ghale doesn’t look back. Once he reaches the threshold, he steps back inside and promptly disappears into the throng of milling partygoers.

Presumably, the boy will stop on his way out to make his goodbyes and thank their hosts again, and he ought to do the same, since it’s getting late. He’s been out here long enough that the cold finally manages to bite though his woolen layers and the residual heat of the alcohol in his blood, just chilled enough to make the heavy warmth of his overcoat an appealing prospect. A shame he left it back at the hotel.

He thinks all that, but then merely stands there without making any move to go. Still gazing at the doors and the golden light that spills through them onto the grass.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and critiques are always welcome!


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